


"...the marks of that which once hath been"

by Heliopause



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Female Friendship, Gen, Narnia Fic Exchange 2014, non-explicit reference to violence and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heliopause/pseuds/Heliopause
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their story began in wonder and delight, as each discovered in the other what seemed another self. But other discoveries remained to be made, about the world and about each other - and even, most bitterly of all, about themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"...the marks of that which once hath been"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [metonomia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/metonomia/gifts).



> With thanks to Snacky, for running this whole Exchange, and to my two kind and scrupulous betas, runesnspoons and Autumnia - any errors left are _totally_ mine - and to my recipient, metonomia, for her prompts and cheerful amplifying letter. The story doesn't _exactly_ match any prompt, but I hope it fills the bill!

o-o-o-o

_"... who ever heard of a witch that really died?  You can always get them back." -- unnamed Hag, Prince Caspian_

_"Just as a snake sheds its skin, we must shed our past, over and over again." -- Gautama Buddha_

o-o-o-o

 _Summoned._ She staggered a little, dazed by that imperative call and still unsure of what this meant, unsure of this body, of how it should... stand? Nothing clear, nothing certain—but now the white-grey mists were clearing and she saw that she stood— _stood_ , the word was _stood_ — beside a stone— _stone,_ she thought, it is _stone_ and it is real. The last of the mist cleared, and she knew herself to be standing beside a dark slab of weathered stone, staring down at the faint lichen-covered indentations on its surface. _Summoned..._ With difficulty she pulled her gaze from the stone, and looked across the flat surface to see who might have so called her from not-being into life.

No other stood there. There was a faint sound, as an echo of an echo, a thin wavering cry of triumph, but even as she caught it, it seemed to dissolve into air as if it had never been. Whoever, or whatever, had called her had gone, withered away or consumed by the calling. She was alone.

And _therefore_ , she thought with satisfaction, the world was her own to explore and to learn and to... She raised her eyes to see what manner of dominion this world might be.

And saw loveliness. Green slopes ran down from the low hill where she found herself, down to darker wooded valleys which hid, she supposed, a river. _Hill_ , _woods_ , _valley_ , _river_ —she found she could name them all and wondered briefly how she knew these things so well when so much was as yet unknown, but then left that puzzle as of no moment, and turned again to take in the whole amazing green complexity of life where she stood.

Low, cushiony herbage, and tall, springing grasses, and small spiky buttons of growth, bright emerald against softer, duskier shades—so many! And then a flash in the air—an iridescent flickering, darting from one grass-spear to the next. _Dragon-fly._ She smiled with pleasure, and reached out to it, but it was gone. For the briefest of instants, her face was shadowed with disappointment, but then another movement caught her eye close against the earth, a graceful slithering which showed greener even than the fronds the creature slipped between.

" _Serpent_ ," she murmured, and stooped to touch it.

Quick as thought, the snake turned, looped itself about her wrist and reared up against her, valiantly, eyes alert, neck flattened into a broad, challenging spade-shape.

She laughed a little and stood upright again, bringing her hand to the level of her face to observe her living bracelet, to see how the colour shimmered as sunlight glanced against smooth-lying scales, and how fathomless seemed the great dark eyes. Enraptured, she stroked the shining slender body, from where its head wavered above her hand and along the length of her forearm; the laughter died from her face, giving way to pure wonder.

"How you _shine_ , amazing creature," she whispered. "You _shine_ , and show me so much."

The snake did not cease its watchfulness, though the broadening of the neck eased a little, as if it were beginning to sense there was no threat here. She smiled, and stooped again, and let it unwind from about her slim wrist and slip into the grasses, green straightway lost to sight amongst green.

"Go, then, if you will; you leave me wiser now than I was. From you I will learn to live here. From you, I will learn loveliness."

She drew her hands down over her face and shoulders, smiling at this new world, as if thinking how best to match its fresh delight—but then another movement caught her eye and her mind. Not flickering nor slithering this time but straight, rapid driving, slantwise down towards her from the heavens, another creature came, as lovely as the little snake, though a creature of the blue sky and clear air, and formed so differently.

Her own form, which she had half-begun to remake, resettled into something closer to that shape she had at first, matching that which now alighted.

This newcomer moved swiftly to the stone slab, reached, and took something from its surface, swathing it in light, as it seemed, and then turned as if to go.

"Oh, don't go!" The cry broke from her on a breath.

The tall shape—like a _woman_ , she thought; the word felt uncomfortable, and she pushed it away—turned back, and looked at her with grave, impersonal goodwill.

"I must. I must take this far from here, lest great harm follow. "

"What is it?" She peered at what was now held close against the other's chest, as if immeasurably precious. "Is it so dangerous?"

"You say truth; dangerous and worthy of all honour. And since those who kept this place inviolate are gone now from Narnia, I am sent for this purpose, to take this and place it in safety, far from those who might grasp it to foul purpose."

"I have not touched it!"

The newcomer smiled a little. "I see that well, since you stand here whole and unharmed. It is known that those who would so use it would surely work their own destruction, even as they willed destruction on this land."

"There is none other here to use it, well or ill. Let it be, and stay and talk with me!"

"I may not stay. He whose work it is to watch over right rule in Narnia has charged me as his instrument in this. But—to speak of right rule,"—interest began to kindle in her eyes—"tell me: has the Lion sent you here, to bring again true sovereignty to Narnia? Are you human?"

 _Lion.. Narnia... Human._ She felt a ripple of unease, a clenching of her mind to shut out a knowledge too terrible to bear.

"No. I am _not_ that."

"Nor I! What is your name?"

"I... I think I do not have a name. I am but newly come into this world, and... I have no name."

The newcomer burned with sudden brilliance; her voice brimmed with laughter.

"Unnamed, and newly born? Oh, we are alike in so much! Truly we must speak further! But _now_ I will be about this task."

"No, stay! I know so little of this place, and... you are so _lovely!"_

The newcomer smiled. "As are you—beautiful as the Spring."

"Oh!" She flushed with pleasure, to have been found pleasing. "Then stay!"

"I may not stay. But when this task is done, I am free until the Star my father has need of me again. For two tasks I was born, but between them, this world is mine to explore and to learn, that I may serve the better. Rest here—No. This place still might bring danger. Go you where the river runs among trees, and follow that river until it joins the sea, and I will find you there, by the river-mouth, near the Cair Desolate."

"I... do not leave me, Star's daughter! Or meet here, not at... not at where you say!"

"I must. You are wise to mislike the sorrow of the Desolation, but go there, that I may find you safe. I promise that when I return we will speak and go together, far from that sad place. Farewell!"

And with that word, she was gone, springing into the air with joyful haste, and away eastward. The other stayed a little longer, irresolute, and then began slowly to make her way down the hillside.

o-o-o-o

Three days and nights had passed before she arrived at the river-mouth. She looked about, tentatively, glancing from the clean sea to the crumbling towers and mossy battlements. _Decay, all other things decay..._

But then a bright flash of gold and sky-blue eagerness leapt towards her, crying, "At last! Why were you so long in coming? And what is this rough garb you wear? Oh, you have been so _long!_ "

"I cannot dart through air as you can. I came here with what speed I could, walking."

"And _glorious_ it was to see you walking here! I was almost weary waiting, though I had these sands and woods to delight in. But I cry you mercy, land-dweller! I did not know that you could not move as I do."

"I cannot. I tried, but I think my forms are fixed now. I must go on the ground."

"And therefore came so slowly! I see now. Oh, I have wronged you! Was the way cold? Were you weary? Hungry?"

"No. I think I do not hunger as beasts do, nor grow weary."

"Nor I! Or not now, not as I am. Oh, we were surely born to friend and know each other!" She seized the other's hand impulsively. "I feel I meet another of myself, meeting you!"

"How could that be? You are so much wiser than I am, so much lovelier—you move so certainly, striding the air, and you _shine!_ " She paused, then went on, rapidly, "But—to friend and know each other: I _want_ that. I want to be with you, and to go with you where you go, and learn—"

"Then come, and welcome, other self! Or sister, if you will! Oh, this will be a joyous travelling, and long! My father has made me free of all these lands, to learn until he bids me come to him again, so we will have many days—years!—to learn together."

"Your father... This is strange to me! Do Stars breed, as beasts do?"

The Star's daughter laughed, joyously. "Oh, I have much to teach, it seems, as well as to learn! No, I was not born as these of the land are; I was engendered from the air by my father's will alone. His measure in the great dance traces that of right rule in this land, and he saw need to act in the low places to guard against woeful loss. And since he may not leave the dance until his time, his need called forth an instrument, just four days since, and such I am, the daughter of his will."

"That, too, is strange to me. I know no other will than my own. Whoever called me here, three days back, I am _not_ theirs to command."

"No, I see well you are all your own, younger though you are than I, by one full day! And with freedom to walk as you will — but since you are your own: why this harsh disguising of your self? Why this strange new covering?"

" _Men._ " The word came with sudden vehemence. "As I came, I saw men travelling, clothed thus, and they jeered at me, for walking freely, and would have laid savage hands on me. Which I refused, but took from them the _clothing_ they thought so necessary; I learned from them how we must live in this world."

"There were ungentle Men here?" asked the Star's daughter, with quick intensity. "Already? Then evil comes more quickly than was thought. But still," consideringly, "they gave the garments that you wear. That was a gentle act!"

"They had no further use for them," said the other, and briefly pressed her lips together, adding, "You need not fret that they bring evil; they are gone now."

"And after one small gentleness, at least; maybe the evil time is not quite yet. But soon it may begin, and then...".

"What may begin?"

The Star's daughter spoke gravely. "This land has been empty of humankind for years now, and there has been no rule here at all, no coming together of its peoples under any ruler. And so it falls into decay and foul broods begin to creep across it. But there is worse to come... My father must soon leave the sky; without his vigil it is feared that then evil times and wrong rule will fall on Narnia."

"But _then_ is not _now_ , and _now_ you said is time for us to explore this land, or... better yet! Why should _we_ not rule it, together? Could we not make _unshakable_ that right rule which you are tasked with!"

"No..." A smile briefly lightened sombre eyes. "I will explain later why that cannot be. But now, I am uneasy, even though those men are gone. I think we must leave here and explore in other lands."

"But we will still go together?"

"Yes, of course! I think I could not easily find _another_ other self—another sister, to learn with me."

"And... you will not mind to travel at my halting pace?"

"A slow pace is best; I will see close at hand, slowly, what I have seen so lately at speed from the high places."

"Then,"—with kindling excitement—"where will we go first?"

"Oh, _first_ , to the south! I have seen there how humans gather, and weave beauty into being, and then remake themselves with it, clothed in beauty like flowers..." The smile had become a laugh. "Indulge me, little sister! I have seen, from the high places, how they make loveliness, and this would be the first we learn of humanness..."

"But why?"—with wary puzzlement—"We are clothed already. And I have seen enough of _humanness_."

"Clothed, yes, but... oh, it will give me such great _pleasure_ to find for you there.."—happy anticipation glowed in her eyes—"to find for you garments much other than these! Raiment cut and fashioned—not to _muffle up_ your beauty but enhance it, to be a hundred times more enchanting still! Oh, that will be a pleasure! And one which you will not deny me, your new-found, most loving sister!"

"No. No, I would not." She hesitated, then went on, resolutely. "I _will_ not—but you must take the lead, dealing with them."

"Gladly! Oh, _very_ gladly, my new sister!"

o-o-o-o

Many days and nights of joyful travel there were, through the green south lands of Narnia, and around the rocky coasts where Archenlandish mountains plunged to the dark sea, and thence slantwise across the great desert to the far west of Calormen, before they reached the lively town of Mezreel. Joyful travel, unresting and unwearied, where every place seemed worth ten years' enjoyment—

"So lovely—in _every_ place! We can go back, can we not? dear teacher-guide, when you have found whatever it is you say must be found here?"

"More loveliness is what we will find here, untrusting sister! But yes, we can indeed retread that same path. I, too, long to explore what I have only seen from the high places—or even to explore those places unseen, the hidden inwards of the mountains."

"I want to see it _all!_ I thought that I loved the mountains, the way their every new ascent and turn showed me new sights, new depths and distances, and then—in the desert there was no turning, nor any sudden newness, and I but loved it the more for its vast, unyielding emptiness! Oh, this is a wonderful world!"

"We shall see it all, emptiness and distance both! But first to the markets of Mezreel, where neither emptiness nor distance will be found!"

The markets were indeed crowded, and overwhelming in their bright array, for the nearby lake was where all the wealthiest and idlest of the great Tarkaan families came to play, and pleasant ease was the chief and profitable business of the place.

"I did not know, seeing from on high, how dizzying would be these crowds close to," whispered the Star's daughter, and held tightly the hand which crept into her own. All around them, the market-bustle pushed past, with only brief, curious glances at the two, one in simple blue garb, and the other in rough drab. "Still, take heart, little sister! I..."

"How rightly esteemed is the honeysuckle,"came a purring, insinuating voice, close behind them, "which sheds its fragrance in a double blossom!"

They turned as one, to find a stallholder regarding them appraisingly, as if to determine exactly how much deference should be paid to these two strangers.

The Star's daughter smiled, and he seemed to decide, grimacing with assumed avuncular kindliness. "Have not the foreign maidens bloomed on one parent-vine, honeysuckle-fair?"

They glanced at each other in gleeful complicity and agreed that yes, they were sisters, and he, seizing this opening, engaged them more closely, and drew them into his booth.

"Blue, also? It is the garb of the higher handmaids of your mistress?"

"We have no mistress," said the Star's daughter, "and we have come that all the most precious and most lovely of your wares and the finest of your art should twine together, and in haste, to array my sister in a splendour to fit her great beauty."

"And it must be green," said the other, softly.

"Ah." The merchant was disconcerted for a moment, but quickly reassessed their standing, and turned with alacrity and pulled out for their inspection shining bolts of emerald, and jade and bright leaf-green, and moss-green and soft viridian, and flung across them also intricate laces, fine as spider-webs, and jewelled ribands and long pearl-bedewed sashes and more and more until they cried to him to _leave be, enough_! And then followed blithe colloquy between the two, and more earnest discussions between the Star's daughter and the stall-holder, as of how the kirtle should sweep _so_ , and how the silky mantle float _thus_ , until it all ended with—

"You will seem the very Spring itself, dear sister!"

But what came after was confusing and distressing, and the seller of fine cloth spoke sharp, contemptuous words, which stung, and even more, perplexed.

"But we have _need_ , and he has all these things—so _many!_ Why should he not give them to us? Why should they not be ours?"

The Star's daughter tugged at her, to draw her away to a quiet space behind the booths before replying.

"I do not know. Doubtless it was to learn such matters that my father sent me to these lands. But I regret his surliness. I wanted to dress you as befits your beauty..."

"As for that, the _clothes_ , I do not care; I would as soon go free again as not, and if any _dared._.. But you bade me not deny you the pleasure of giving these to me, and I _would_ not have! You should have _every_ pleasure!"

"Oh, little sister! So like me and so unlike, to feel so deeply.   Don't weep! We still may find the way through this puzzle, and find how they gather those gold rounds."

" _Coins._ They're called _coins._ "

"Dear land-dweller!"—in quick, affectionate amusement—"You by your nature know already those things I could not guess, looking from the high places. So then, if _coins_ is their name—we must find how to gather _coins_!"

"We should not _need_ to. They have what we want, more than they need! Why should they not give them freely? Would that not be the _right rule_ you think so much of?"

"But if he will not...oh, I have so much to learn. Come. Let us to the valley beyond the lake, and..."

"No,"—scrubbing at the tears on her flushed cheeks—"I have a thought. Come back and we will try again. But let _me_ stand in the lead this time."

"As you will, little sister! But he did not seem to me like to think better of his hard words."

And, standing behind, the Star's daughter could see no reason why the stall holder should change his mind, but change it he did.

She saw his face change, too—his angry sneer as they approached was, as it seemed, at her sister's first words wiped away as if it had never been—the ruddy cheeks fell to sallow grey, and the eyes which had been narrowed in contempt widened to a blank stare of total shock.

She gasped, and her sister turned, and smiled back to her, lovingly and triumphantly.

"He has understood! And so I bring _right rule_ to Mezreel!"

"You asked, and he will now just _give_ them to us? Oh, I think I am as amazed as he! He will fashion the raiment as we asked?"

"Yes!" Her voice rang with happy confidence.

"Sir, this is gentle indeed! Your kindness..."

But the market-seller was now looking down resolutely at his wares, avoiding her words and her eyes. Her sister leaned forward slightly.

"We will be back, tomorrow. And this that I have assked will be ready—isss it not ssso, garment-ssseller?"

"Yes," he muttered, looking down, still refusing to meet their eyes.

"Good!"

And now it was the land-dweller who seized her reluctant sister's hand, and tugged her away from the crowded place, to where she might marvel—for she was all questioning amazement—in privacy and stillness.

"That hard man... to change in an instant... what did you say? Wonderful, wonderful creature! Oh, you were surely made to give deep counsel to the mighty!"

The other seemed possessed by a wild exhilaration, hugging first herself and then the Star's daughter.

"Am I not _wise_ , to make him see _right rule?_ We should return to Narnia, to rule there, as I said, and make all straight again!"—with joyous generosity—"Queens _together_ , you and I!"

"No," answered the Star's daughter, soberly, "for Narnia is a land only rightly ruled when a human has the throne, or shares the rule, at least. All our wisdom together—even yours, marvellous counsellor!—would not make up for that deficiency. But... that you convinced him...I can hardly believe. Will he truly give us the garments tomorrow, as he promised?"

But despite her doubts, on the morrow the raiment was ready, and the drab garments fell away disregarded, and the one sister acted as handmaiden to array the other, who danced and laughed and twirled again, making to fly free and flutter the long-trailing mantlings of her gown, and looked eagerly and asked

"Does this garb please you better, older sister? Do I?"

"You have always pleased me, foolish child, however clad or unclad! But this garb does honour to your beauty, like a leaf-cluster, holding and honouring the flower."

She dimpled in pleasure, but said only, "Then I should rather ask—does the _giving_ please you?"

"It was not my gift, but... yes, I am very pleased! And now let us go to the Valley of a Thousand Perfumes, where I think you will be the fairest flower of them all!"

And that same day they left the market-place behind, directing their steps towards the head of the lake, and the Valley, walking easily and unhindered through the crowds. Nonetheless, as they left Mezreel, the Star's daughter heard, uneasily, how a low muttering seemed to follow them, wherein she caught, repeatedly, in shuddering tones, the same few words.

" _Narnian..._ _Narnia_... _demon-kind..._ "

o-o-o-o

They loitered long in the Valley of a Thousand Perfumes, at first to let the year return that they might enjoy the spring again, when all those flowers bloomed which had given the valley its name, and then to taste another delicious summer, there where the untilled land gave more plenteously than any garden, of flowers and fruits both.

Long, idle days they spent, roving high on the starry-blossomed slopes above the Valley, or wading knee-deep through tall, tussocky grasses, or bathing in the cool, brown rivulet which slipped down to the lake of Mezreel—long, dreamy days of happiness and pleasure.

Late in the second summer, a day came when, having gathered from the trees their sunwarm apricots, they sat to eat, and having eaten, lay down, luxuriously, on the soft clover, breathing deeply its sweet scent. The sun beat down on both of them and, heat-lulled, they were silent for a time, until she of the green gown rolled, wriggled as if to take in bliss with her whole body, and exclaimed, "I _love_ this! Could any human joy meet this, do you think?"

"They also breathe the scents, dear Greenkirtle!" replied the Star's daughter, lazily. "They also bite the fruits, and suck the juices. These joys we have in common."

"But they have pains... they have hunger. If I had pains, it would spoil any pleasures, ever. And they grow _old_. I will never grow old! I can feel it in me; I will _not_ grow old!"

She leapt up, her eyes alight and her bright hair whirling about her.

The Star's daughter looked up at her from where she lay, and laughed. "I believe it! How could Spring grow old? It will be a delight to me when I am old to think of you still as you are."

"You? Grow old? Not possible! You are a _Star_ ; you tread the air!"

"Only when the sky is over me—even in deep shade I would go uncertainly... and I am only the _daughter_ of a Star, dear sister!"

"I am no-one's daughter." The words sounded half defiant, and half-desolate.

"Yes." The Star's daughter sat up, suddenly. "It is a puzzle we left behind us at the Cair, what you are, and why you came to Narnia! One called you, you have said, but for what task? And though you are not human..."

"Who _would_ be, that could choose to be other? Would you let fall your power to tread the air?"

"No power of mine, but only a lending from the Stars, dear flower, and only as I am seen by them; if the sky is blocked from me, I must tread the ground, even as you do."

"But you would not choose to lose that lending—not to be less than you are?"

"It is a choice open to me, at least! But we have strayed again from this puzzle, of who has called you into being, and for what purpose—or we might say, what choices are open to you."

"Why does it matter? Can you not love me just as I am, without knowing if I have a father or a task to match with yours?"

"I can and I do! I do not need to know, but it might help you, that is all."

"Is not this enough? To live and to enjoy this world?"

"For the time, yes. But the times may change; you may yet need to know what it is you are, and why you were brought into life at that place."

"Must there be a _why?_ Maybe the place itself made me, to help in your task."

"It may be." The Star's daughter pondered. "It is a place of great age and power."

"Whereas I, dear sister,"—whirling again, spinning dizzily, and laughing—"am _new_ —newly begun—I can feel it! And all choices are open to me, and I am _not_ human, and I will _not_ grow old."

"Oh!" The Star's daughter had risen to her feet, with a sudden, sharp cry, and was looking intently up into the eastern sky. "No wonder is it that we two are talking of age, and of change! Oh, how the heavens _shake!_ Time _turns_ now; it pivots on this instant."

"What do you mean? The air is still."

"Yes.. yes... _this_ air. Oh, how strongly it swept across the world, the wind of age and change." She laughed, a small half-laugh. "Even you felt it, dear flower, and thus our thoughts and talk turned as they did."

"I felt nothing."

"You do not know how to know that you felt it, but so it was. The knowledge of age and change swept across us all. "

"What is it? What do you see has happened?"

"Not _see_ , but feel it. My father has fallen from the sky. Ramandu leaves the heavens, and the constellations change!"

"Ramandu?"

"He whose high calling was to tread the path of Narnia's right rule in the great dance. We must consider now, sister, what we do."

"What... why should we do any differently than we have done?"

"Because the heavens have changed! Because Narnia is in great peril! He does not call me yet—he will grow young for a time, and I will grow older in wisdom, if not in body, and then he will call me, and I will go. But for now... we must think how we will change with this."

"I don't want to change. We are happy as we are."

"Yes, lovely flower! But nonetheless we must think of change, and how we shall best meet the times. Wrong rule threatens Narnia; maybe we should return there, to see how best to hasten right."

"Oh." The gathering discontent cleared from the face of her sister. "We will still be together, then? We travel together?"

"Did you not say that you wished to see again the desert and the mountains? Yes, we travel together."

o-o-o-o

The journey across the desert was meandering, by another route than that which they had first travelled; when they came at last into Archenland it was among the dry far-western peaks. There, too, they wandered long, by narrow ledges and around rocky pinnacles, and into dim tunnels through the mountain, and in one such came to a sudden breaking-away of the path before them—to a dark, wide fissure, though they could see the path continue on the other side, down to where daylight lit the tunnel.

The Star's daughter halted.

"We must turn back, Greenkirtle! There lies the clear way down, and the gap is small, but more than can be leaped, I think, and under these rocky roofs I cannot tread the air. We must return and find another way."

"It is no matter if we must. Be it another year, or ten, I still will delight in these mountain paths."

"I also love them, but I would see at least the lands bordering Narnia, to gauge how she fares, and how the wrong rule advances. It is for her sake I grudge this delay."

"You should have gone through air from the Valley, then,"—in mildly petulant tones.

The Star's daughter smiled at her. "Though I would go with speed to Narnia, yet I would go with you, Greenkirtle—so we walk. And _therefore_ we must turn back and begin again to find a way beyond this impasse!"

"No... if you want it so much... but you will think me _strange_!"

"I _do_ think you strange, dear flower! Strange and impassioned, and yet in other ways so like me! You are altogether wonderful! Come!" And the Star's daughter moved to retrace the way.

"No! I can... _Wait!_ Or, I mean... look!"

Her voice rang, curiously intense, and the Star's daughter turned to look into the dark, to see—she strained to make sense of what she saw—the slender form, about which the light fluttering silks were seeming to shift and turn and cling close, and her sister's arms and legs were somehow merging back into the shining green, and there was no more a woman's body, but that which swayed in clean, unbroken, supple gracefulness, and there was no longer rippling silky hair, but a sharply slanting crest of bristling gold, and the fair face was smoothing, lengthening, greening, and eyes grown huge and burning-bright looked out at her from...

Ramandu's daughter stood stock-still, her back against the glittering rock. It was a jade-green serpent she saw, where just a breath before had been the one she called her little sister.

But the serpent's eyes seemed to her now to shine with eagerness, and it was her own sister's voice which spoke with that serpent-mouth.

" _I_ can, dear sister! You cannot fly to bridge this gap, but I can hold you safe, and take you over!"

She was silent, grappling to be sure that she had seen what she had seen, and the serpent spoke again, a little anxiously.

"You mustn't be afraid! You... you have to trust me."

"I am not! But... I am _not_ , dear Greenkirtle, and I trust you with all my heart. But... I will trust you indeed. How must I do?"

"I will hold you," replied the Serpent, looping herself about the other as she spoke, and drawing the coil close, "and you hold me, too; I would never let you fall, but you will feel safer, holding, I think."

The Star's daughter obediently embraced the strong, smooth body, and felt the ripple of muscles surging around her, and felt her feet lifted off from the floor of the ledge... and then the Snake plunged unhesitating over the edge, and down into the dark.

And so, breathlessly, back to the open air, and under the clear sky, and sliding from the Serpent's coils, who became in no greater time than she had changed before, herself again, Greenkirtle, standing, panting a little with the effort, and her face shy, questioning, exultant and a little afraid, so that the Star's daughter knew that it was she who must speak, and quickly.

"Oh, you are _amazing!_ So much _more_ amazing than I ever guessed! How can you do this? How strange and lovely the creature you became!"

"Did I surprise you? Oh, I know I did! Your _face_...!" with a quick, high, breathless laugh.

"You may well say so, you always-surprising playmate! _subtlest_ of all creatures! How have you come to have this skill? How long have you known to do so?"

"Since my first day in this world, before I ever saw you! Nothing was certain then, not even myself, and for a little moment I thought maybe to take this form. But then I saw you, and I thought how much more..." She shook her head, smiling, and left the sentence unfinished. "And so I stayed in this, after all, but the memory of that form is in me still. And now..."—half-defiantly—" _now_ you must tell me how wise and how beautiful I am!"

"Both of those, little sister! But more than both, how dear to me!"

"Dear in _both_ my forms? Truly?" A certain tremulous uncertainty crept into her voice. "The men in Narnia... they called me _horror_... they screamed... and..."

"Oh, sister! Oh, never _horror_! Yes, dear to me, most certainly, always, _always_ and in every form dear to me. And moreover"—teasingly—"so _useful!_ "

o-o-o-o

But though the word was spoken lightly, and more to reassure than in earnest, this ability—and the Stardaughter's own—did indeed prove _useful_ in the years that followed.

Travelling through Archenland, they heard repeatedly rumours of ill-doings in Narnia, of invasions in force from the west after years of paltering incursions and harassments. Along the Arrow, down towards the sea, rumours became more pointed, more tied to doings near at hand, until finally the whisper grew that the invaders of Narnia had been seen off Arrowmouth, cruising and observing the defences of the harbour.

"It is these we must observe," the Stardaughter decided. "Should we take ship, do you think?"

And when further listening made plain that the invaders—called _Telmarines_ —were frequent visitors to Galma they did take ship, dressed as ordinary Archenlandish women, for the three-days' voyage, northwards along the Narnian coast.

The sea was calm, but they were troubled, that first evening, by one on board who could not believe that two women, travelling alone, would not enjoy his attentions. From talk, he fell to nudging into them, as if to edge them into a corner of the deck, and grabbed at their shawls, with jeering words, and did not leave off until at the same moment the Star's daughter rebuked him and the ship's master called him to his work. He left then with surly mutterings, that he would _see them later, at his leisure_ , and then _find what they hid under their scrubby rags_.

The two looked at each other, their faces mirroring distaste.

"I do not like these men. He is like those I met in Narnia."

"It is the outworkings of wrong rule, flower, and as little liked by me as by you. Still, sharp words have repelled him, for the time; if he should return tonight, I will speak more strongly still."

But the Star's daughter did not see again the man who had troubled them, though it was a small ship enough they travelled by, a coaster. Nor was there any sign to show where he had gone; only, as they disembarked, they heard the ship's master talking to a wharfman.

"I don't like it. Calm voyage, sea like a duckpond, and yet... two men gone. Uncanny. To lose some overboard in a storm, that's luck of the trade, but on the Arrowmouth to Galma run..."

"No great loss... and you save their pay."

"Truth!" A short laugh. "But still... uncanny."

o-o-o-o

Galma's port, they found, was like a smaller, meaner, dirtier Mezreel, where stiff ropes and grey canvas replaced bright ribbons and soft woven stuffs, and where no perfumed breezes blew, but only salt, fish-smelling air, darkened and polluted by the fusty heaviness rolling from the doors of tawdry inns.

"Faugh!" exclaimed she of the green gown. "Here are men as vile as on that ship, and not even clean air."

The Star's daughter smiled. "In truth, this place is the unloveliest that yet we have seen. But it is my hope that we may learn here, that we should take work"—for they had learned much, travelling through Archenland, of _work_ and how _coins_ were gathered—"and listen, and learn, and maybe ourselves undertake to combat these outworkings of wrong rule."

"And make those men feel _fear_... to pay them back in their own coin! Yes!"

"Perhaps, those men who do evil. Better still, to stop evil altogether."

"Good!"

"But—little sister," She drew close, and leaned to whisper. "Have I learned at last how you persuaded the Mezreel merchant to give us your fine clothes? _make those men feel fear_ , you said, and I know now that his face meant _fear_ , that day."

"Oh..." her sister ducked her head, then looked up, impishly. "Perhaps! But it made you happy, that day, too!"

"It would not have done so, had I known. He was an honest merchant, as I now understand. And you played some such trick on board our ship, I think, also? Driving those sailors from the ship by _fear?_ Better to keep such tricks for those who are evil-doers indeed."

"I will do so," her sister promised, guilelessly.

o-o-o-o

They worked in many places thereafter, often enough taking ship—though Telmar grew less ready to take the sea-road over these years; the sea, they said, was not _lucky_ for Telmarines—but returning again and again to the seedy bars of the Galma waterfront, where drunken sailors, and land-workers too, had long made lives unhappy with insistent pawings and persuadings and overpowerings. _Had_ long done so, but over years, imperceptibly, change came to Galma...

One time the Star's daughter and her sister were together at kitchen-work when there was a sudden commotion of protest and the sound of a slap, then a heavier blow, and loud laughter. A girl burst into the kitchen and stood a moment, bundling up again her dishevelled hair. The two glanced at each other, and she in the green moved closer and reached out tentatively.

"Did he hurt you? We can..."

The girl flinched away angrily, refusing her touch. "No, I'm not hurt. Filthy Telmarine pig! It doesn't matter. They're out in the morning."

She threw them a defiant glare and slipped away to the outside lane.

"He was grabbing at the Calormene woman before."

"Yes. And now might harry this young girl, who goes unprotected. Dear flower, this man has been too little challenged. He should meet... someone more resourceful.."

"Me, this time! to pay him hurt for hurt, fear for fear!"

"No. The Calormene is safe abed, but I will go now, to see that this girl goes safely home. If he follows me, the heavy-handed Telmarine, or tries again to pester her, if he grabs again, then..."

"The flying spectre of the night—yes! And with a _knife_ to slash at him!"

"I need no knife. The shock and fear will be enough, I think."

"He should _scream_! Because he made that Calormene scream!"

"I will not overpay, but he will learn to let women walk in peace, at any rate."

o-o-o-o

"I _like_ this work, beating back wrong rule."

"I think, sometimes, you like it too much, little sister."

A mischievous smile. "Do _you_ not enjoy that we can do this, and are what we are—to swoop and twine about, to bring _right rule_? Should I _not_ like to be what I am? Could plodding human women do this work?"

"That will be learned in time," replied the Star's daughter, seriously. "I may one day yield up the privileges I now command, and take on all the limits of the lower places. Then your sister would be dull and plodding as human women, but still would need to work for right rule."

"Oh!"—with a quick fierce embrace—"you could _never_ be so dull as they... but do not be lesser than you are!"

"You take fire too quickly, little sister... the time is not yet."

"May it be _never!_ The _terror which flies by night_ has done so much to bring right rule to Galma!"

Ramandu's daughter laughed, and conceded the point.

o-o-o-o

It was not always easy, not always clear what was _right rule_.

Once they were in time to hear a man—a Galman—speak with casual contempt to the master of the inn, saying "Time to pay up, _worm_!", and saw the master rapidly count out gold, and push it, cringeingly, across the counter.

The man slouched out without another word, and the Star's daughter asked, curiously, "What was that, master? Why should you give him the coins? He has given you no food, nor clothing, nor any other thing."

"Don't interfere," snarled the inn-keeper. "He wants it, he gets it."

"But why? He is a cruel man; I see it in his face."

"He is that! As for why... better you know, maybe. You used to work down at the Long Wharf, didn't you, you two?

"Yes."

"Right. _He_ didn't pay." The inn-keeper looked at them askance, and busied himself pulling the stools into place.

The two looked at each other, then she of the green kirtle said, "And what of that? He is no poorer; his inn is still sound."

"That may be." A short silence, then he muttered, very low, "He has no-one to inherit it now."

"What do you mean? He has three strong children, the two boys and.."

"Well, he hasn't now, see?" He turned on them, furiously. "They called it an accident, but there's no way all three could go like that, all crushed beneath the load-rollers in one night. So I'll pay, and you'll keep your mouths shut, see?"

"Yes, I see," said the Star's daughter, through stiff lips.

There was no discussion between them, but the next morning the man was found, close by the Long Wharf, dead.

It was not for some days that either made mention of the matter. She of the green kirtle kept close to her work, while the Star's daughter looked at her, ever and again, unhappily. Finally:

"It was too far, little sister. The fear is useful, and sometimes the hurting is necessary, if in a kind of battle.  And we must establish right rule, but..."

"He deserved it.   I am glad I did it. I will do more, if I see need..."

"No..."  The Star's daughter spoke as one troubled, striving to understand great matters. "You have all the passions of the humankind, and more, but passion seems to me in truth a _hindrance_ to right rule..."

"...and also,"—laughter crept into her sister's voice, under a coaxing semblance of a spoiled child's charming wilfulness—"I did _not_ like the way he called the inn-keeper _worm._ "

Against her will, the Star's daughter smiled.

o-o-o-o

And many and many a time, over the years, any who had not been lessoned by the sharp words of the girl—as they called her—in blue, or by her sister's stinging scorn, would find later a sudden terror loose upon them, if they still snatched unwanted at one who passed by, or staggered after her, to _teach her respect_ , as they said. Many a time such a one would find in his near-stupor that the _pretty girl_ had gone, and that he was to his vast astonishment desperately beating away at something unseen—terrifying, predatory—which fell like dark lightning from the night air, again and again, until he cowered, weeping and swearing _never again_ to act as he had done. Or else it might be that even as one laid greedy, questing hands on what seemed easy prey he found himself entangled by a... a serpent, a great serpent whose green coils he strove in vain to push away, and who gripped and tightened, smothering his frantic screams until a merciful darkness overtook him, and he became one more, as it seemed, who had drunk too much and passed out in a dark corner.

"Another who can't hold his liquor!" the inn-keepers would snort. "They talk big, the Telmarines, but here's another one, sprawled out on the back stairs like..."

"Like a boneless worm?" said one of the two, and then both put their heads close together, and he could hear sounds—unaccountable sounds, for what had they to laugh about?—of wild, half-stifled laughter.

And Galma trade in general was shifting over those years. The slave-trade, for example. There was the slaver which having sailed out one day from Galma on the long southern voyage to Tashbaan inexplicably sailed back the next, crewed only by those who had been slaves, and no word ever said of how those who had once manned the ship had been disarmed, or where they had gone.

The Duke, indeed, detained those former slaves who seemed to him the likeliest to have led a rebellion but they were mysteriously freed in the night, though imprisoned at the top of the highest tower in Galma—and since there was no sense to be got from the guards, only babblings of a flying ghost, the Duke sensibly put it down to sorcery, and let the slaves go where they would, so that they left Galma.

"I would be glad to know that the slavers had fled their evil trade because they saw it for the great wrong it is, and not for terror alone. That would be best," said the Star's daughter, turning from the Long Wharf to look searchingly at her sister. "Then they might begin life again, and find a better way to be themselves."

"It might be _best_ , but we must work as we can, I think. You have your part in the work, and I have mine," her sister said, her eyes still fixed on the departing ship. "Do not ask how I have persuaded them; be content that cruelties are diminished."

And when two or three more slave-ships had gone the same way, the slave-traders concluded that Galma was no place for business, and took their trade elsewhere. The Telmarines, too, came less and less, as the feeling grew that for them, at least, the sea was an unchancy place. Indeed, by the time Galma port had begun to wonder again how it was that _those two pretty barmaids_ still seemed as young as when they had first arrived, years back, Telmar had turned from the sea altogether.

"And so we have brought, if not entirely right rule to Galma, a lessening of the wrong," said she of the green kirtle.

"Yes. It is a gentler place now. But now that Telmarines no longer come, what can I learn here about Narnia?"

"Then will we to Narnia?"

"I would not go too close to the Telmarines..."

"Nor I! I've had my fill here of humans."

"... but just to the very coast maybe, alongside the sea."

o-o-o-o

When Archenland's sombre pines began to yield to Narnia's beech and oak they stopped, judging that they had reached border-country.

"How glorious it is here! Oh, it is _good_ to be away from humankind!"

"One day you must learn to love them, I think! But—yes," the Stardaughter paused, admiring the smoothness of a slender beech, whose leaves already glowed gold with the turning year, "it is good to be where no built ugliness intrudes."

"It was in this country, though not in woodland, that first a small green snake showed me its loveliness. For her sake, I must love it."

" In the spring, " the Stardaughter mused, surveying the clearing, " there will be blue flowers here."

"When spring comes, we will return, then, if you must have blue!"

"No need. This gold is lovely, too,"—scanning the boughs above—"and nutfall cannot be far off..."

"A small—green—snake." Her eyes were fixed, as she spoke, on her oblivious sister. "For whose sake I—"

" _For whose sake..._?" queried the Star's daughter absently, still intent on the sunbright forest roof, and then gasped, startled, as the other swooped, lightning-fast, drew tight and tumbled her, laughing, onto the brown leaf-mould of years past.

"Oh, your coils are so strong! And you are so _quick!_ "

"Yes? Are you afraid?"

"No." She smiled up into the long serpent-face which hovered close above hers. "For whose sake, _what?_ "

"For whose sake," the Serpent spoke seriously now, and shimmered back into her other form as she spoke, "I would much mislike to see men despoil these green places. Stardaughter, Telmarines have learned to fear the sea... should they not now learn to fear the woods?"

o-o-o-o

The years were fewer, but well-filled, that they spent there, ranging the forested coasts even as far north as the Cair Desolate. They saw men, and knew that inland the unyielding power of Telmar gripped the land with iron shackles, but seldom ventured closer than was needed to ignite and fan into flame the tales that ran among them, of _She-who-flies-and-rends_ , and of a Serpent, quick and terrible. And if the Telmarines fled from them as spectre and monster, the Narnians avoided them for their likeness to the Telmarines; thus they were alone for the most part, and content to be so.

Some few times they came closer, to disrupt the transporting of prisoners along the coast, or to deter timber-cutters venturing too far into the forest. Once, they met and had speech with a Narnian, a prisoner held in great secrecy—for the Telmarines denied the very existence of her kind—as hostage for the surrender of her people. That one they freed, but she, after looking them over with shrewd suspicious eyes, proved not disposed to linger, and made off without delay.

And so passed those years, until there came another day of change, of change betokening great good for Narnia, but foreshadowing as well great wrong and long-lived sorrow.

"Shhh... listen.." The Star's daughter had half-risen, and was gazing out to the east.

"What? What is it you have heard?"

"Not heard, felt." Her eyes were alight with an ardent happiness. "It is the call from my father."

"Call?"

"To leave this place, and be about the next of my tasks."

"Where will we go?"

"Not we—this is for me alone. Ramandu calls me to the island where he grows young again, that I may be made ready to ensure right rule in Narnia."

"But... without me?"

"I will miss you very much, dear flower." She leaned to kiss the lovely face.

"But... you will not leave me here alone!"

"I must. Now begins the restoring of right rule to Narnia."

"But we are _doing_ that. We punish wrong-doing—we set free prisoners..."

"In small ways, on the fringes of Narnia. But this has been my playtime, my learning time, little sister. Now begins in earnest..."

"And just like that? Just like _that_ you will be gone? Was it all pretence, for _playtime_...?"

"Now I will be gone, certainly." The voice was briefly a shade cooler, but warmed again. "Our time together was no pretence, sweet Serpent; I have loved you dearly. But it was not the task for which I was born."

"And what of me? Have I no task? Am I so purposeless? "

"One as amazing, as wonderful as you? No, you surely are formed for—for some great deed!"

"Then why set me aside?   Why are you called, and not me?"

"Because this is my task, not yours. This is what I am."

"And what am I? What am I for? For _playtime_?"

"I cannot say, dear flower!"—but though she accompanied her words with a caress, her voice spoke of eagerness to be gone—"Maybe to learn to love more than one poor Star's daughter! But be your task what it may, I must be about my own."

"I thought your task was mine,"—with plaintive dignity—"I thought that we were _sisters_."

"And so we will be still, though we may not be together again, and though this body now will be given over to other use than ranging the world with you, dear Serpent."

Both were standing now; after a silence she of the green kirtle, spoke again, with difficulty.

"Please... do not leave me here alone."

"I must. I must bring in right rule to Narnia."

"Th-then," Her words stumbled in her eagerness. "bring it in with _me!_   I will wait for your return.  We can rule together, we could make..."

"I have told you. That may not be. This land is never rightly ruled unless by humans. Or as it may happen," with a soft, musing smile, "by one who rules handfasted with a human. I do partly know the way I may be used to strengthen right rule in Narnia, and in that way I may rule, or the fruit of my body may rule..."

"...of your body?"

"If I should have a child—if it so happens, as it may, that I am handfasted with a human king, and we together have a child, then..."

"You... or your _child_ will rule? Your _child_ who will be _human_? Rule in my land?"

"To bring right rule, yes! If you truly want right rule, then..."

" _Truly?_ Do you forget the years we worked together, you by air and I by serpentry...?"

"I never can forget! But that was for that time. Soon I may relinquish starry ways, and learn to know weariness, and hunger, to grow old. Dear Serpent, I would be no more like you if I am handfast to him than is a human woman. I would be no more a fit companion for such as you..."

"You _always_ would be. Always! _Please..._ "

But even without words, the refusal was evident; they stared at each other in a long silence, as if across some vast and impassible ravine.

Then she in green asked, slowly, "You have said... you think to rule here? In the land which was mine!"

"Not alone," replied the Star's daughter, carefully, "but only as may be, handfasted to a human."

"Then... so might _I_ have done! It seems to me... you _planned_ this! You took me from my own land, from my birthright, to _steal_ it from me, under your pretence of...",

"There was no pretence!"

"You plan to be _queen_ here? As wife, or mother of the child whose begetting you so eagerly hasten to... "

"I do not hasten." The Stardaughter's voice was cool again, cold. "There are years yet, and much still unseen, before I may meet the child who may yet restore right rule to Narnia with me. But I will need to learn all that Ramandu can teach me, and I must go."

"Must rid yourself of me to... oh, this is treachery! it is _treachery!_ You have so devised. _.._ "

"If you think so, if you so choose..."

"Choose! _I_ have never chosen... only _you_... oh, _vile!_ "

"This is no _choice_ for me; this is what I _am_. For you—do not choose hate now. Do not choose now to think me traitor."

"Are you not one? Cruel and treacherous... you took me, tore me from my own land, and now betray and steal, and with a _human man_ , to get with child and be Queen... Of course, _hate_. All I have left is hate... "

"Or it may be—jealousy." The word was spoken with a cool precision. "Choose then; think as you will. But if you so choose, why do you linger here with me, spitting your jealousies..."

" _My_ jealousies?   You who have schemed to be queen in _my_ land, and by handfasting.... by _bedding_ with a human man, when you know... Scheming, treacherous, _liar!_ And—oh, you betrayed yourself there, traitor, to let loose that secret!— if handfasting is the way, if that is the way, then may not I be Queen here as truly as you? Do you think I cannot so beguile a man that he would fall at my feet for gratitude to be allowed to share my throne?"

"How can I know what limits there might be to your entrapments, or your reaching after what is not your own? If you hate me, go."

" _Go?_ It is not _your_ land, to bid me go..."

"It is not my land yet, but these are my skies. Why do you stay here, under my clear heavens, to weary the Stars with the sight of your pettiness? Not from Narnia alone, but take your hatred out of all the open lower places! Why do you not crawl into some dark pit, Serpent, and nurse your resentments there where we need not look on you!"

The other gasped, in anger or in pain, then cried, chokingly, "They need not! You need not! Cruel... _treacherous!_ Oh, be satisfied! You are most surely rid of me now. You will never see me again until... I will not look on your cold skies again until I can pay to you again the pain—oh, know that I will of a _certainty_ pay to you the _treachery_..."

Her voice broke on the word; she turned and fled.

Ramandu's daughter turned her head away, and stood, her arms taut and straight at her sides, and her fists tight-clenched, fighting to control her stormy breathing, to force her anger down until she could feel it ebb away to something closer to the serenity befitting a Star's daughter, to, perhaps, a calm disapprobation. Only then did she look to the unseen, unseeable Stars, that she might speedily take her way into the distant east.

"It will come right," she said, into their silence. "My father will make plain to me whatever is not yet clear. I will learn. It will come right."

And so took flight, holding fiercely to that hope—but still, as she sped towards the morning, knew that she carried with her, and perhaps now would ever carry, an unaccustomed ache, a desolation, for the ending of that which once had been.

o-o-o-o

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Coleridge's poem, "Christabel":  
> ... A dreary sea now flows between;—  
> But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,  
> Shall wholly do away, I ween,  
> The marks of that which once hath been.


End file.
